First Date
by
Greig Olivier
He was tired. And nervous. Miserable weather. Before entering the hall, the overcast fractured. A ragged edge of orange light squeezed through. He barely noticed the only piece of sky the day offered. A cold day, chilling into night. Patient, endless rain. He weather-vaned against the brisk wind.
The hall's initial warmth dissipated quickly. He shivered twice. Wiped the fog from his glasses. Eased into a soft-looking arm chair at one end of the enormous glassed-in room. Black plastic cushions creaked beneath him. Cold against ass and thigh. He stared straight ahead, legs crossed, elbows on wooden rests. Folded his hands prayerfully just below his lips. He bit at hard skin lining a nail. Pulling away shreds of skin with his front teeth. Until it bled.
He slouched. Aimed his eyes through thick framed glasses over the perch of his fingers. Facing him head on, down an open hallway formed by a series of arched interior pillars, a ceiling clock gave the time, 7:25. Well dressed couples lolled through the hall or loitered between the columns. Some women shouldered furs. His eyes moved from clock to people and back again. An index finger, one inch from his nose, pulsed with his heart. Evening turned the daytime windows to night time mirrors. Like polished lead. Smokey images doubled the quietly talking crowd. He was early. Self-consciously, he heard the dry air whistle through his nostrils. He re-crossed his legs. Felt an edge of scrotum sticking uncomfortably to his thigh.
And waited. He set his face into an expression of indifference. Dull calm. Masking hours-old tension gripping his stomach. Distress compacted into a tiny, hot meteorite boiling below his diaphragm. Constipation constricted his bowel. To the point of pain. Sweat ran down his sides staining the silk shirt beneath his coat. He longed for a cigarette. And to adjust his scrotum.
He hadn't eaten all day. Coffee, just coffee. Jittery. He touched his tie, centering it again, sliding thumb and forefinger down the collar to its flaccid points. He dressed carefully that evening, wanting to look nice for her. He was uncertain. Confused to hear she'd meet him in the hall instead of letting him pick her up. He didn't object fearing she might pull back. He wanted time alone with her. Of course, he was taking a chance. His bravery surprised him. But not his desperation.
How should he act? If the occasion arose, he considered introducing her as his niece. What would she think of that? She's so open. She'd turn away, for sure. He made the best of it. It's OK to meet here. That's fine. Here, friends meet in the open. She's a friend. More than an acquaintance, anyhow. She's his new graduate lab assistant. Three months new. His face flushed fogging his spectacles again. The frame's sides pushed grooves into his temples. From the granite floor, cold leached into his feet.
He was exhausted. All day lecturing. Mechanically, not tolerating question. Just do as I say! Freshmen. They're intimidated so easily. He sniffed a short laugh, reflexively closing his eyes. Then rigidly surveyed the moving shapes ahead, dragging the direction she would appear. Focusing hard. He was hot. And cold. Sweat evaporated off the nape of his neck, wetting the short hairs along the back of his head. His feet were ice. Stomach burned. He fought the push of gas, tightening his buttocks. 7:38PM. The lights hurt his eyes. His calm was a cast. The concert starts at eight. Music provided the escape he needed. From his life. From home. His bedroom. Since she arrived, he found concerts lonely. Risking a quick respite from surveillance, he lifted his bifocals to massage the fatigue from his eyes. Let his head rest backward, bald spot pressed against the cold glass. He wondered what that might look like from the other side. And forced a smile.
It was likely she wouldn't show. She said she would – three days ago. Plenty of time to forget. She had her own life. A sudden stomach contraction made his eye flutter. He devised excuses for her. He wouldn't mention it tomorrow. The corridor continued to fill. He crossed the other leg. The weight of his woolen pants itched. Sounds of the crowd dimmed. He heard himself swallow. His focus shallowed. The heat of his body assembled in his head. Spreading downward like a self-induced fever.
Impulsively, he rose. Cleared his throat. Stretched and leaned against a concrete pillar near the glassed side door. He watched the vacated chair slowly release the impression of his body. Periodically, the door swung open. Breezy, cold air accompanied young men and women hurrying through. Dressed mostly in black, carrying oddly-shaped black suitcases.
Back to the chair. He wanted to smoke. Relieve the pressure jamming his bowels. Cool his stomach. Warm his feet.
Up again. Arms folded. Unfolded. Hands in pockets. Black figures continued to flicker by distractingly. Halfway down the hall she smiled at him. The meteorite vanished without him knowing it.
She wore summer. A light pink shawl running slantwise across half her body, from hip to shoulder. Underneath, a loose white pullover blouse and soft grey slacks concealed her figure. Wavy, dark hair, pulled severely back, bounced behind her head.
Shaking hands, they smiled politely at each other. A firm, warm grip. Her teeth were wet. Lips pink and friendly.
He gave her her ticket. In case she wanted to go in alone. Just being cautious.
She said they needed a ticket for the man who brought her, now parking the car. The meteorite returned. They joined the ticket queue, making small talk. He exchanged the two tickets for three-in-a-row. Joked about wanting the middle seat.
He led them high up the small auditorium, where the light was dimmest. To an empty row that was pulled out a wrinkled, cream colored, plastic-papered wall. She took the middle seat, talking, smiling, smiling, smelling wonderful. She looked and acted older. It grew dark. Then quiet. The orchestra sat motionless, tuning finished. Finally, a man strode on stage. Loud applause shocked him. The concert began. It went on and on. She placed one elbow on each armrest. His touched hers. She didn't retreat. She commented that the pianist hummed while playing. He agreed automatically, not noticing.
All at once, it ended. They parted from him, shaking hands like friends. She smiled again and could have been his niece. They were invited to a party. Would he like to come? She was certain it would be all right.
Once home, his wife asked how the concert went. If he had a good time. He replied the pianist hummed loudly distracting from the music. It is so good, she said, you find pleasure in music. The weather alone keeps me indoors. Then he asked. No caring for an answer: How was TV this evening?
Lying awake in his own room, the door firmly shut. The cramp remained lodged inside his abdomen. He tried to recall the evening. He remembered the heat of her elbow next to his. Then thought about tomorrow.
